


guilty pleasure ships

by Jack (BaraFrance)



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, i'll add ships as i add chapters, pyro is nonbinary, that was a cool suggested tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaraFrance/pseuds/Jack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I decided to do a 30 day challenge, but it will undoubtedly take more than 30 days and include fics of varying pairing and varying length. However they will all be TF2 and they will all be cheesey</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coffeeshop AU; Sniper/Scout

**Author's Note:**

> All of them are cross-posted @ onwednesdayswewritefics.tumblr.com

James sighed, leaning against the counter and playing with the dog tags dangling around his neck. A glance at the clock confirmed what he already knew--it was that time of day, when nobody came around. Too late for the morning rush for coffee, too early for casual customers. Except for one regular, who should be coming in soon...

As if on cue, the bell over the door rang and James perked up. At the door was the only regular James actually recognised as such, though he was pretty hard to miss either way. He was tall, almost obscenely so, with a pronounced slouch and a little paunch belly that he actually hid pretty well. He always had a hat on his head and aviators perched on his crooked nose, and when he approached the counter he gave James a crooked little smile that pulled at the tiny scar across his cheek and showed he had lightly yellowing teeth that were oddly sharp and crooked. 

He always ordered the same black coffee, giving the name "Lawrence." 

Really, with the way James looked at him every day, he shouldn't have been surprised to find the phone number scribbled on his coffee cup.


	2. Idol & Fan AU; Scout/Engineer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhhh cw for some homophobic slurs? They're moderately harmless in that they're not being flung around so much as just being in Scout's internal monologue...
> 
> The Conagher family has been country stars for generations. Let's just pretend that's a thing that happens

I’m not a faggot, alright? I’m just a guy who has an appreciation for good music.

I mean, I wasn’t really into country before, but that don’t mean I can’t be into it now. And, well, I still don’t listen to any other country, but—he’s an exception! He’s better than all the rest!

I’m a man of discerning tastes, after all. It takes some pretty damn good talent to get a poster on these walls! I mean, look at ‘em! Babe Ruth, Manny Ramirez, David Ortiz! And, well, the cheerleader calendar, but they’re pretty talented too. And him.

Dell Conagher. Winner of two country music awards, billboard chart topper, teenage heartthrob—

N-Not that I’m a teenager, or my heart’s throbbin! Goddamn, can’t a guy just appreciate talent? Nah, I totally just like his music. I’m twenty three fuckin’ years old, I’m a little beyond childish musician fanishness. Which, I should add, is why Ma got me tickets to his concert tour for my twenty-third birthday last month. ‘Cause she knows I’m a musical connoisseur. Floor seats! Front level! She could only afford one, since they’re such high-class tickets, but I don’t mind. Nobody appreciates Dell’s music like I do, anyway.

I was, like, totally not excited to go. It was just a night out, you know, listening to good music. I was definitely not bouncing my leg at work the whole day thinking about the way his rough tenor would sound in person, how if it melts like butter and makes my chest tight over the radio what’ll it sound like when he’s in the room—

…I mean that in a, um, musical appreciation kind of way. Duh. Good music always makes my chest tight and my heart flutter, that’s all it is. Quit makin’ me out to be some kind of queer. God.

When I got there, I was kind of surprised by the sort of people I was sittin’ around. I mean, I guess he’s technically not… as big a hit with the teens as I’d thought. It was mostly the sort of people who looked like they’d be into country music. And me, of course. I was totally the coolest one there. And also a little early.

"You ever been to a Conagher concert before, boy?" The guy next to me was fairly young, though still older than me. He looked like he would benefit from a good night’s sleep and a razor for his face.

"No, this is my first one."

"Figured as much," he said with a chuckle. "You stand out like a sore thumb."

I frowned. This was my nicest t-shirt! It was either this or a red sox jersey, but that didn’t seem nice enough. The scruffy guy smiled at my expression.

"Plus you’re lookin’ around like you’re expectin’ somethin’. You know how these things usually go?"

I shrugged. “Well, he sings on stage, and we cheer, then we buy cd’s or whatever before we go.”

He shook his head, chuckling again. “Maybe at your pop-rock n’ roll concerts, but that’s not how Dell runs things. Country’s more personable, more interactive—”

"I mean I read that he talks to the crowd," I interrupted, voice sounding way more nervous than I actually was, "but I figured it was a kind of call and response thing, where everybody yells an answer, you know?"

He shook his head. “Nah. Conagher boys got a habit of wanderin’ the crowds between songs, gettin’ to know fans. Too friendly for their own good, to be—”

"Boys?" I asked. "Like, plural?"

"…Yeah, kid. Dell’s daddy and granddaddy both were country stars. Radigan was famous back when my folks were your age… Do you, uh, not listen to country?"

I felt my face heat up, and I looked away from him. “I guess I mostly pay attention to Dell’s stuff…”

The guy smirked, and slapped a hand on my back, surprisingly friendly for just being the guy in the seat next to mine. “Of course, kid. I understand.” I don’t think I liked his tone. I was debating serving the guy a new asshole when I noticed that the auditorium had filled up, for the most part, and they were lowering the hall lights.

The show started off without preamble, immediately starting with one of my favourite songs—one about summer down south, not the most original concept but God if Dell didn’t make it his own. It was even better than I’d imagined, seeing him sing so close and hearing his voice and the enthusiastic plucking on his guitar without recording equipment or a radio in between. Once the song finished, though, he set the guitar down, coming to the edge of the stage with the mic in his hand and plopping down so his feet dangled over the edge.

"Howdy," he greeted sheepishly, the side of his mouth curling up in a crooked smile. He was wearing what he did for most concerts, according to the magazines—a simple pair of overalls, boots and a ten gallon hat. Everything about him seemed cliche at first glance—close-shaven southern boy with the classic drawl and a definite strength about him, despite the soft belly underneath that denim.

But he was different. I knew it. He’s different.

"I wanna thank y’all for comin’ out tonight," he continued, short legs kicking over the edge of the stage. "I appreciate it, honest. I’m still surprised people buy tickets to these things, especially after my pop stopped performin’. Dunno if any of you’ve gone to any of their shows, but I don’t do things too much different. I like to get to know the people who come out to these things…"

He shrugged, sliding off the edge of the stage and looking around. I afforded a glance around the room too, and realised it wasn’t… quite as big as I’d expected. He could probably do a lap around in less than ten minutes if he didn’t stop to talk to anyone, but of course, that’d defeat the point. I didn’t think this far into it at the time, though. I was too busy trying to act like my heart wasn’t about to jump out of my chest in excitement.

He stopped and talked to a few people, asking them where they were from and idle questions about life, but somehow it wasn’t boring at all. It didn’t take long for him to make it back to the row I was in, and I guess the guy next to me was right in saying I stood out like a sore thumb.

"Well, you don’t look like someone I’d expect to see here. One of these old geezers drag you along?" he asked, mouth curling into a chuckle.

"Ah—No, sir. I’m here on my own. I’m, ah—I’m a big fan…"

"Well, I’m flattered!" He sounded honest about that, eyebrows raised. "Where you from, kid?"

"Boston. And I ain’t a kid!" I added, as an afterthought.

"Oh?"

"I’m twenty-three! Uh—Sir."

He laughed at that, a full belly laugh, and I couldn’t help but smile at it. “You don’t gotta call me sir. What’s your name, since I can’t call you kid?”

"Scout, sir—Uh, I mean. I’m Scout."

He chuckled again, turning to walk back towards the stage. “You’re a funny guy, Scout. Hang around after the show, I’ll try and catch up with ya.”

...Alright, so maybe I'm a little queer. Just for him, though.


	3. Seven Minutes in Heaven; Scout/Pyro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hit a block so I skipped forward to #16: Seven Minutes in Heaven.
> 
> Flash fire, scout/pyro, this time. CW for consistent misgendering throughout the entire fic, but it's less from transphobia and more from cluelessness. There's maybe a little transphobia at the end but it's still not from malice so much as from Scout being kind of stupid

Scout only agreed to play the dumb halloween party's dumb party game because all his friends had signed up. He could get chicks on his own, he'd told them. Chicks were probably signin' up just because he was, you know? Trying to get a taste of these sweet Scout lips. The ladies were pounding down his door for a taste of this! He's fighting off the babes, 24/7! Then they'd handed him the clipboard, and told him to stop running his mouth and start writing his name, already. He was number 26. Besides, they'd told him, he already copped out on the costume. Scout tried to argue that he was dressed up as David Ortiz, but they said a baseball jersey and a Red Sox hat don't constitute a costume.

The girl who was running the party--Miranda was her name, a cute little redhead with glittery lip gloss, fake cat ears and, like, three boyfriends that everyone knew about except the three boyfriends themselves--She took the clipboards and whisked them away, coming back with two fishbowls full of little paper slips. She fished them out and called two numbers--24 and 97. One of his friends slapped him on the back before trotting off to a door with a blue label, and Scout noticed the door with the pink label closing shortly after.

So all he really had to do was wait around for them to call 26 and the number of some cute girl, then he'd go in that dark room and blow her fuckin' mind for seven minutes, then she'd probably catch up with him and ask to take him home for halloween night, and he'd have to ditch the guys. But they'd totally understand. A man's got needs, after all.

He found himself chewing through half his pack of gum and sipping his way through two bottles of beer before Miranda called out his number. 26 and 82. He grinned, sure that number 82 was some sweet babe, and spit out his gum on his way to the darkened room.

It was surprisingly roomy inside, and weirdly hot. It was lit enough from the line of light below the door to make out vague shapes, but not much more. It was a bathroom, if he was seeing right. A really big master bathroom with two doors, one on either side. There was a basket on the counter, and once he stuck his hand inside he figure out it had a stash of condoms inside.

Well, at least Miranda had been prepared when she'd set up this little party game. He rolled his eyes, turning to keep inspecting the bathroom. He had his back turned to the far door when he heard it close, so he missed his chance to see her by the hall's light, but from what he could make out she was pretty tall, which was hot in a babe, if you asked him.

"Hey," he greeted with a nod and a grin, despite the fact that she probably wouldn't see either. She moved her hands up to her head and took something off--presumably a mask, since everyone else had tried a bit harder on their costumes. There was an audible breath when the mask was off, and she set it carefully on the counter next to the condom basket. Then her hand moved again, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Uh..." Her voice was quiet, low, and gravelly. Scout grinned.

"'S alright, babe, I'll be gentle with ya." He swaggered forward, and she flinched a bit, but didn't run. He put his hands on her hips, standing on his toes to let his lips find hers. They were dry, but not unpleasantly so, and Scout moved a hand up to rest on her cheek. Which was... rough, and hard? Like scar tissue... She pulled back when he did that, though, shaking her head with an unsure noise.

Scout hushed her and pulled her back into the kiss, keeping his hand at her collar instead. She seemed to be wearing something--leathery? Maybe her costume was some kind of kinky bondage thing. He smirked against her lips, lightly biting the lower one to lick his way inside at her gasp. 

Somehow his hands made their way around her neck, and her hands came to rest on his hips, which he thought kinda backwards, but he was too wrapped up in kissing her to care. She wasn't skilled, or experienced in any way, but she was also intoxicating, in a way. She smelled like woodsmoke and ash, but in the most delightful way. She tasted like candy. She was clumsy, but endearing, and seemed impressed by his "skill." He briefly let his hand wander, but the leather suit was kind of shapeless, and she giggled into his mouth when his fingers poked at her sides, which was cute. She pulled away for breath and Scout noticed he hadn't felt her hair at his cheeks. He shifted a hand to brush her hair, and found it was pretty short--probably around cheekbone length, and kind of dry.

She ducked down to kiss him the second time, and he grinned at her enthusiasm. Before he knew it, his arms were tight around her neck and they were making out as if they'd been dating for a week. It didn't feel like seven minutes before a heavy knock came at the door, and she startled away.

"S-Sorry," she said with a laugh, and Scout again had to notice how low and rough her voice was. She'd probably been yelling along with the music and lost her voice, or something. The mask was pulled back over her face just before the door behind her swung open, bathing them both in light.

Scout stumbled out of the bathroom with a flushed face, rubbing the back of his neck. She'd been far from the best kisser, but he couldn't brush those seven minutes off as well as he'd expected. She was... cute. He hadn't even seen her, and she was cute.

He spent the rest of the night looking for someone in a latex costume, or at least a mask that'd cover their whole face or someone whose costume matched the flash of red he'd seen scurrying out of that bathroom door. He was about to give up when he saw someone dressed in what looked like a red haz-mat suit and a gas mask sneaking out the door. He jogged to catch up, grabbing her by the hand.

His hopeful look told her all she needed to know, but she shrugged. He reached for the mask and she pulled back, shaking her head. After a moment's hesitation, the mask was pulled up just enough for Scout to see those lips, and the masked babe spoke.

"You wouldn't like me," she rasped, and for the first time Scout questioned if her voice was always like that.

"You're adorable," he answered, "And I haven't even seen ya. Can't I get a chance?"

"I was only cute in the dark."

"Is it about your scars?" She flinched, but he continued. "I don't mind. I got scars too, just--not on my face. I promise I ain't as rude as a lot of the guys I pal around with--"

She shook her head, and took a half step back. Scout couldn't explain the weird, sad feeling he got in his chest at that. 

"C'mon, babe, just--you can leave the mask on, if you really want..."

"I'm--not a babe," she answered, and Scout frowned.

"Huh? Yeah you are, I just told ya it don't matter what ya look like--"

She sighed, grabbing his hand and pulling him outside. He held a hand to his hat, making sure it didn't fall off as he was roughly pulled along to the alley between Miranda's house and her neighbour's. Then the suit was unzipped to reveal a plain white t-shirt, and a completely flat chest.

"So you're... flat? I mean, I figured you weren't super busty, since I couldn't feel anything through the suit--"

There was an audible groan from behind the mask's filter, and Scout found his hand thrust farther down the suit.

"...You're a dude."

She--he--pulled the mask up again just enough to reveal his mouth. "Biologically, yeah. I've heard you say 'no homo' enough to know you're not really interested."

He zipped the suit closed again and turned to leave before Scout could reach out as he had before and grab his hand. "What'cha mean, biologically?"

"I'm agender. It'd take too long to explain--"

"So, it's still no homo."

"...Technically?" He shrugged, wariness clear enough through body language before his tone gave it away.

"One date. C'mon. If you hate it, you never gotta see me again."

There was hesitation, and Scout used it to pull the mostly-covered not-guy closer, kissing them again. Their shoulders slumped, and they smiled against his lips.

"They call me Scout," he introduced when they pulled apart.

"Pyro," the other introduced, and Scout started to accept that the low voice was biology, but the rough gravel quality wasn't. "Just Pyro."


End file.
